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“You mean biblically, of course.”

“You think that meek-faced vicar knew you better than me?” he demanded against her ear.

“Well – ” she broke off with sudden diplomacy.

“What does he know about you that I don’t?” he asked tersely. “Tell me.”

“No, no,” Lizzie replied weakly. “I did not mean that!“

“Tell me!” he reiterated, closing his arms about her fast.

“Well,” she blew out her cheeks. “Just inconsequential things really. Like my favorite verse, sermon, season … That sort of thing. But I did not mean Reverend Milson, in any case. I was thinking of my uncle who raised me.”

Benedict snorted. “If he knew a damn thing about you, then he would know you did not lie about that bloody brooch.”

Lizzie had no reply for that. “I suppose that is true enough,” she conceded quietly and rested her head against his shoulder. His fingers squeezed convulsively at her waist, and they lay silent a moment.

“Why did you tell him those things?” he asked in a surly voice after a moment or two.

“What things? Who?” she asked absently.

He pinched her hip. “Milson. Why did you tell him personal things about yourself?”

Lizzie considered this. “Well, he came to dine with us once a week,” she answered truthfully. “Polite table conversation usually revolves around such things.”

“You usually embroider slippers for dinner guests?” he asked with an edge to his voice.

Lizzie raised her head in surprise. “Who told you about that? Those were a Christmas present!” she retorted feeling unaccountably embarrassed. The curl of his lip showed he was not appeased. “It is a perfectly respectable practice for a parishioner to give a handmade gift – ”

“What if your vicar was old and infirm?” he interrupted. “Instead of young and smug with an oily grin.”

“Reverend Milson’s predecessor Canon Wilner was seventy when he retired, and I also embroidered him slippers for Christmas!” she informed him icily. Benedict grunted, his hand sliding from her hip to cup her backside. Lizzie caught her breath. “I could make you some next Christmas, if you so desire,” she joked feebly.

“You’d better.”

Lizzie drew her head back to regard him with surprise. “You want slippers?”

“Of course,” he shrugged. “I can wear them for the four steps it takes from the wagon door to the bed.”

Lizzie burst out laughing, and he yanked her forward to stop her mirth with his lips. When he released her, she was breathless. “You’ll be telling me you want polite conversation from me next.”

His shoulder rose and fell. “You’d better tell me those things while you’re at it.”

“What things?”

“Your favorite flower,” he growled. “And whatever the hell else you told that slimy bastard.”

“Benedict!” she struggled a moment in his arms, but as he held her hard against him her struggles were not having the effect she had anticipated. “There’s no need to use such language!” she objected primly. “My aunt and uncle were present the entire time and so was Betsy! I don’t remember you objecting to his presence at Sitwell Place when my cousin was your affianced!”

The next thing she knew, she had been rolled underneath him. “I don’t give a damn if Betsy sat on his lap clad only in her drawers,” he said roughly as he dragged her nightgown up her legs.

“Benedict!”

“She was never mine. Not like you are.” His hand was between her legs now, petting and stroking her there.

Lizzie caught her breath. “You w-wanted to marry her,” she pointed out.

“Not really,” he breathed out. “The fact I ended up engaged to her at all was just a matter of bad timing.”